


we'll dig a hole and bury our defeat (winter comes too soon)

by openmouthwideeye



Series: West Eros High [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:38:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Go. Fight. Win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we'll dig a hole and bury our defeat (winter comes too soon)

It took Brienne’s dad 6 days to break down and bring up cotillion.   
  
She was beginning to think that he had realized it was a disaster in the making and decided to drop the issue. But her dad was forever worry about her best interests, and she knew this was just the sort of thing he’d decide she was missing out on.  
  
“I know you love hockey, honey,” he said, setting aside the book he’d been pretending to read while he waited. “And you’re good at it. But don’t you think it’s time to introduce some variety to your extracurriculars?”  
  
“Variety” had been his word of choice since she’d hit puberty. It was his dad way of saying “culture,” “femininity,” and “social grace.”  
  
“I could take up baking,” she bargained, riffling through the cupboard for a granola bar.  
  
“Baking is a solitary endeavor,” he said, sitting at the counter and leafing through the pamphlets Mrs. Stark had given him. “Cotillion sounds like an opportunity to get out there and meet other girls your age.”  
  
“I already  _know_  girls my age.”  
  
How could she tell him that was the problem?  
  
“I know it’s out of your comfort zone,” he ceded as his daughter slid onto the barstool beside him. “But people aren’t always as bad as you think.”  
  
 _No, sometimes they’re worse.  
_  
It was an uncharitable thought, but she couldn’t quite convince herself it wasn’t true.  
  
Her dad was eyeing her with concern, clutching his forgotten book, and she could see frustration in the furrow of his salt-and-pepper brow.  
  
 _Why can’t you try?_ it seemed to say.  
  
 _I did_ , she wanted to say back.  
  
But she hadn’t told him about Red Ron and the cruel farce of a first date. She hadn’t told him about the bet, how guys had written sonnets and given her chocolates and Kyle Hunt had laughed, “’no’ in chick means ‘keep trying.’” She hadn’t told him that her night at the Starks had started in Sansa’s room, not Arya’s.  
  
She loved her dad, she really did. She couldn’t do that to him.  
  
“Those girls don’t want me there,” she admitted, staring down at her hands. They dwarfed the health bar she was clutching. She bet Cersei’s wouldn’t. “They’ve already got their own thing.”  
  
But if social politics baffled her, no one could argue she didn’t come by it naturally.  
  
“Joanna Lannister told me her stepdaughter made a point to invite you. Honey, people can’t surprise you if you don’t give them a chance.”  
  
“I guess,” she mumbled, fiddling with her wrapper.  
  
“It’s not enough to be part of the team, Brienne,” her dad told her softly.  
  
The concern in his eyes was getting to her. It always did.  
  
“I’m fine,” she said firmly, tearing open her food and filling her mouth.  
  
“I don’t want ‘fine,’” he grumbled. “I want ‘happy.’”  
  
“Hockey makes me happy.”  
  
“Until the game ends,” he reminded her.   
  
 _And you’re alone,_  he didn’t have to say.  
  
Quiet nights with her dad and her books couldn’t always be enough.  
  
She chewed, sorting her thoughts, but there were no easy words for what she was feeling.  
  
“Cotillion won’t make me happy,” she said finally.  
  
He stared at her, as if he could give her the perfect life through sheer force of will.  
  
“It could be a start,” he murmured, and Brienne knew he wouldn’t push anymore.  
  
But she could never bear to make her dad unhappy.   
  
She sighed.  
  
“Could you call Mrs. Stark for me? I’m gonna be late for warm-ups.”  
  
Her dad’s small smile was a mere quirk of his lips, there and gone again, but his eyes were warm as he brushed her cheek.  
  
“New adventures,” he declared.  
  
Brienne smiled into his hand, and the rush of affection she felt for him was almost enough to swallow the fear that had rooted in the pit of her stomach.  
  
“New adventures,” she whispered.  
  
 _And a good game to dull the pain.  
_  
*****  
  
 _This is where I belong.  
_  
Brienne clutched her stick, rocking back and forth on the edge of the bench and waiting for the next line change. Her eyes kept flicking back to The Bloody Marys’ box, where their captain, Victor Hoat, was practically snarling.   
  
 _Keep clear tonight,_  she assessed in half a heartbeat.  
  
Hoat wasn’t strong, or fast, or even all that skilled with maneuvers. But he was strategic and unpredictable, with a streak as spiteful as the rest of them. And right now he was  _very_  pissed off.  
  
WEH had just scored again. Saint Mary’s was down 2-1.  
  
“First line,” Coach Selmy ordered as the second line veered toward the box.  
  
Brienne was already standing. She followed Jaime onto the ice, Loras shadowing her, and the three burst toward separate grids on the offensive end, their defenders trailing behind.  
  
The Bloody Marys’ first line was a ragtag group of players who shouldn’t have been able to coordinate enough to play together, but somehow they did. The defensemen were Gorge and Biter, both slow but nearly impossible to overcome once they were on you. Biter had earned his nickname in a game against Pentos High her freshman year; he’d bitten a chunk from a left wing’s fist during a fight, and tried again on their center.   
  
Their front line was almost as bad: A winger nicknamed Fat Z who was solid enough to play defense, but brash enough to play offense; Tim, who could hook and spear a player right under a ref’s nose; and Victor Hoat, the team captain, who gave their coach, Ruthless Roose, a run for his money.  
  
Brienne quickly evaluated their positions, noting the puck, the play, and where Jaime and Loras had settled on the ice.  
  
They slipped into play almost as one.  
  
Down and back, down and back, and West Eros High gained the advantage.  
  
It could have been staged for a movie. The puck practically floated to her, and she trundled around Biter and Hoat and passed the puck to Loras, who evaded Gorge by skating circles around him. He made to pass back to Brienne, and the Marys took the bait. Jaime was wide open when Loras flicked him the puck and swung around to block Tim from following.  
  
The defenders were on him, but Jaime slipped around them, maneuvering his skates with effortless grace to slip the puck between the goalposts.  
  
3-1.  
  
Hoat slapped the ice in frustration, and Jaime saluted him with a cheeky smile.  
  
Brienne wanted to laugh. Jaime caught her eye and winked, and a smile crept onto her face despite her best efforts.  
  
She circled behind the net as Loras and Jaime skated back toward the bench, letting them pass into neutral ice before moving to follow.   
  
The sight of two Bloody Marys slowed her skates. Hoat was nodding at Fat Z, and the sinister intent in his eyes raised hair down the back of her neck. They moved toward their own gate, Hoat hanging back while Z edged left, skating slow. He seemed off somehow.   
  
Brienne skated forward, shifting towards them as a precaution.  
  
The heavyset forward veered sharply right, across the ice before she could so much as blink. Brienne felt a surge of protectiveness as she darted forward to stop him.  
  
“Jaime!” she warned, too late.  
  
Jaime half-turned and Z slammed into him, knocking his head into the glass and ducking back, letting him lose control of his skates.  
  
Jaime fell hard and lay sprawled on the ice, dazed.   
  
Brienne checked Z so hard he rebounded off the boards, but he caught her arm and held tight, and she had to struggle to keep them both upright.  
  
Hoat was there then, grabbing Brienne from behind. She was stronger than he was, but he had a better angle, and suddenly one of their defenders was binding her between them. She struggled uselessly, preoccupied and anxious, as Z skated back to Jaime and stared down at him.  
  
Jaime was shaking his head, shifting on the ice, testing his limbs. There was a trickle of blood inching down his forehead.  
  
Brienne tried to force her way to him, but Hoat had her left arm twisted behind her, and the right side of her body was pinned. She checked him with her hip, and the defender caught her hard in the mouth with his fist. She spat blood at him. It hit square across his cheek, and he backhanded hers. Her nose didn’t break, but blood leaked from the impact; it dribbled down her chin and spattered on the ice.  
  
Then the refs were there, shouting at the Bloody Marys, pulling them off her.  
  
 _Not them,_  she wanted to say.  _Get_  him _._  
  
Z wasn’t fighting, but Brienne knew with a certainty that he was the only threat.   
  
When they wrestled Hoat away from her he looked angry, not defeated. His eyes were on Jaime; something dark bubbled in the twist of his mouth.  
  
Z moved so quickly, Brienne barely saw his skate. There was no time for Jaime to react as the blade sliced the padding on his outstretched arm, pressing all of Fat Z’s weight onto the exposed limb.   
  
There was barely time for his scream, low and strangled.  
  
She heard a sharp crack, and for one silly moment, she thought Jaime’s stick was caught under him. But his arm was bent and his stick was not, and Jaime’s face was contorted in a grimace that made her want to cry.   
  
 _Stupid_ , she berated herself, shoving away the childish urge.  
  
Crying wouldn’t mend his arm, and it wouldn’t payback the monsters who had broken it.   
  
She lashed out, pushing past the referees as they rushed toward her teammate and attacking Victor Hoat with every ounce of the rage and horror twisting her insides to daggers.  
  
The rink had erupted in chaos. She saw Loras from the corner of her eye, tearing into one of their defenders. Sandor had escaped the box; he was laying about their 2nd line with animalistic fervor.  
  
She managed to rip off Hoat’s helmet, and he howled as it snagged his ear, leaving a bloody streak down the side of his face. He caught the front of her jersey and yanked as if he meant to rip it off her, but she used his weight against him and elbowed him hard in the mouth.  
  
“Bithch,” he snarled around a mouthful of blood.  
  
She growled and lunged at him.   
  
“Enough!”  
  
She dimly recognized Coach Selmy’s authoritative tone, but it wasn’t until her skates left the ice that she realized he was yelling at her. Brienne was strong, stronger than half the guys in the league, but the arms wrapped around her had her immobilized.  
  
 _Traitor_ , she thought unfairly as Coach Selmy shot her a hard look and strode across the ice to Jaime’s stretcher.   
  
Jaime’s helmet was gone, and as they hauled him into the air his head twisted sharply in her direction, braced against the pain. A bloody, sweaty lock of hair drooped across his forehead. It was so grimy she could barely tell it was blonde.   
  
Jaime seemed suddenly powerless in a way that Brienne had difficulty comprehending.  
  
Shame flooded her, and crushing worry. She watched anxiously as they carried him from the ice. They disappeared behind a support beam, and when the stretcher emerged from the other side Jaime’s stepbrother was gripping tightly to the edge of it. Her eyes latched back onto Jaime, and she didn’t blink until the heavy arena doors echoed closed above the dull roar of the crowd.  
  
Gregor had eased her back onto the ice when she’d stopped struggling, but Brienne felt too tired to move. She stood there in the middle of the rink, watching players and officials alike trudging back to their positions.  
  
Words like “laceration” and “bone fragments” drifted over the speakers, with a string of numbers she couldn’t quite grasp. Brienne felt numb as they announced a resume in play.  
  
Coach was back, quietly assessing the disarray of her uniform, the bruise forming on her jaw, her bloodied lip.  
  
“Back in the box, Brienne,” he said gruffly.  
  
Loras nudged her forward, and Brienne passed behind the glass and dropped onto the bench next to her teammates. By the time the puck dropped, she had reached a conviction.  
  
 _They_   _will_  not  _score again._  
  
They didn’t.  
  
All their underhanded plays and brutal fouls made no difference. Coach Selmy was stonefaced, Arya fierce over missing the action, and the Cleganes were beasts no matter what the provocation.  
  
But Brienne was impenetrable.  
  
By the final buzzer, every player on the Marys’ bench knew the exact second Z lost them the game.  
  
Brienne trailed Arya to the women’s locker room, feeling vindicated.   
  
It was a hollow victory, all the same.  
  
She took her time undressing, dabbing antiseptic onto her injuries, letting the lukewarm shower rinse away sweat and blood and lingering resentment. Arya was long gone by the time she pulled her fading WEH hockey sweatshirt over her wet, frizzing hair and stuffed her gear into her bag.  
  
She hoped to find a nearly empty arena, but crowds had lingered, caught up in the fervent school pride that could only come from an injury during the game.  
  
Brienne ducked her head and tried to make herself small.  
  
Cersei was standing alone by a pillar, eying the players with disgust. When Brienne trudged past her expression turned positively baleful. Her lip curled, and the stare she fixed on Brienne was enough to make her chest tight and her throat dry. She clutched her bag until the strap cut into her palm, looking anywhere but at the beautiful blonde and the accusation in her cool green eyes.  
  
As Brienne’s eyes darted around the arena, they came to rest on a familiar form. Her breath caught and her shoulders braced without her permission.   
  
She hadn’t known her dad was coming—he hardly ever made it to her games—but she could only imagine what he thought of her after tonight’s display. This would be fodder for weeks worth of concerned discussions.  
  
“Need a ride?”   
  
Loras came up beside her, effortlessly slipping into the role of white knight.  
  
 _Yes.  
_  
“I, um – “ Brienne swallowed hard, forced out the word, “ – no. I should probably ride with my dad.”  
  
Loras shook his head and rolled his eyes.  
  
“Brie. Stop being a martyr.”  
  
“It’s fine,” she insisted, biting her lip when her dad noticed her watching. He frowned, small and dissatisfied, and her heart clenched.   
  
“We won’t take no for an answer,” Margaery announced, slipping up beside her brother and threading her arm through his. She glanced over her shoulder, a small smile playing at her lips.   
  
Brienne turned to look, but Margaery tugged Loras forward, and Brienne had to maneuver her gear to avoid clocking them.   
  
“You won us the game.”  
  
Brienne shuffled backwards, creating distance between her pounding pulse and Margaery’s earnest lie. The misdirected praise was making her feel kind of sick.  
  
“You deserve a few minutes to bask in it,” Margaery insisted.  
  
And she caught Brienne by the arm, too.  
  
Brienne sought out Loras, but he shrugged as if to say,  _what can you do?_  
  
“Shouldn’t we check in on Jaime?” she protested, adding anxiously, “Has anyone heard from Tyrion?”  
  
She resisted the urge to glance back at Cersei and shiver.  
  
“They’re sending out text alerts,” Margaery’s smile turned sympathetic.  
  
“He’ll probably be out for the season,” Loras grimaced. “We’re totally screwed.”  
  
Loras admitting he couldn’t singlehandedly win the season was like the Marys’ coach raising his voice: completely unheard of.  
  
“What’d you hear?” she blurted.  
  
“Nothing,” Margaery soothed.  
  
“ _You_  were there,” Loras added. “You saw the crazy angle of his arm.”  
  
She had. She’d been trying to unsee it ever since.  
  
“Don’t dwell,” Margaery instructed. “We need to get your mind off it.”  
  
The siblings exchanged a look. Brienne didn’t even try to decipher it.  
  
“Loras and I were going out,” Margaery spoke carefully, eyes still on her brother. “You should come with.”  
  
“I can’t-“ she started, but Loras was already nodding agreement.  
  
“You can’t sit at home every night, Brie.”  
  
“My dad-“  
  
“Can fuss at you when you get home.”  
  
“There’s-“ she cast about, said weakly, “-cotillion in the morning.”  
  
If Margaery was surprised, she didn’t show it.  
  
“You may as well get to know the girls you’ll be stuck with,” she pointed out.  
  
Brienne tried one last time.  
  
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”  
  
Margaery glossed Brienne’s paper-thin excuse.   
  
“I’ve been missing my dashing brother. And someone needs to help me distract him, or he’ll spend all night sulking about Renly missing his game.”  
  
She tucked in close to Loras and pecked him affectionately on the cheek.  
  
Brienne could only describe Loras’ expression as pouting.  
  
He was supposed to be her teammate, her comrade-in-arms. But apparently all the camaraderie in the world couldn’t squeeze between Margaery Tyrell and getting her way.  
  
“We’ll stop for milkshakes,” Margaery insisted, tugging her brother and his teammate into the brisk January air. “Everyone will be post-gaming at King’s Landing.”  
  
Margaery slowed, casting a sideways glance at Brienne from beneath her lashes. She was all soft beauty and sweet smiles, but nothing could hide the determination sparking in those bright brown eyes.  
  
Brienne’s lip was swollen red, her face was purpling in places, and her knuckles were bruised and split, but for half a breath Margaery Tyrell was the most terrifying thing she’d ever seen.  
  
“It would be a shame for us to miss it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please take a few moments and leave some feedback!


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